The wedding that almost wasn't

So for months, the maid of honor had been hitting on the groom, following him into men's rooms and flashing him. Either the bride didn't know or she didn't take it seriously until about 2 days before the wedding, when tipped off by the other bridesmaid.

That's when it all went to hell.

The bride and her MOH had it out in a hotel corridor. Rumor has it that at one point, the bride aimed her righteous indignation at the groom, saying, "The wedding is OFF." But eventually she stomped off to the rehearsal dinner, 40 minutes late, arriving in state and looking gorgeous, determined, and not a little pissed off.

The MOH was nowhere in sight. But her boyfriend was there, also looking pissed, drinking copiously and playing with the bride's 6-year-old son. And by "playing with," I mean making near-constant jokes about the little boy going easy on the rum and Cokes. He himself showed no such restraint.

Later the wedding party (minus C) went out on the town, not to return to the hotel until 7 a.m., when the groom slept all day and apparently had some sort of bladder-control issues. Apparently there was a pissed motif. C and I didn't get the memo.

The next day, the MOH did come to the wedding, dressed to kill in coral satin. But she looked heartbroken the entire time. I was taking photos from the front row of the tiny ceremony, and I have more than a few of her looking wistfully at the groom.

Her boyfriend sat right behind me, glowering. And clutching his Red Bull and vodka. We were all clutching drinks, actually; that was the only way the wedding coordinator could get our tiny party to move out to the moongate where the wedding would be held. If, that was, it was still on.

Finally he herded us all out there and the ceremony began, right at sunset. The minister asked if anyone had any objections, and I don't think anyone breathed.

Later that night, amid the chicken dance and the hors d'oeuvres, the MOH kept leaving the reception and her boyfriend would mysteriously reappear. Finally, after the cake was cut and the toasts given, he stormed out and she followed him. He stopped, said "This relationship is OVER!", and stalked off, leaving her wide-eyed in his wake.

The next morning they were spotted having a congenial breakfast.

I was agog. "But they broke up!" I whispered to C, hoping they would not see us and come over.

"They've probably broken up five times this week," he said.

I have never been so glad to be out of my 20s.

I'm back, babies!

And ready for action! Bermuda is lovely, even if everything does smell vaguely of decay. Oddly, decay smells a lot like cat pee.

We rented mopeds for three days and C could barely get me off mine. A garbage truck nearly got him off his, though.

We were cruising through a tiny little lane - Wreck Road, if you can believe it - and around a blind curve came an enormous flat-faced white truck. Right where C was about to go.

It looked like he was going to slide right under the wheels, but he swerved, missing the truck by inches. Had the truck been there one second earlier, Bill would be dead or at the very least, in the hospital. Or possibly still wedged under the truck.

The three people in the cab - all of them with their mouths wide open, horrified - started yelling something, but by that point he was already past them. I was behind him, and as I passed the truck, the woman in the passenger side leaned out and caught me, her hand shaking.

"Tell him he did really well!" She said. "We thought he was dead! We're so glad he's OK!" They all nodded and for a second there we were, four people who'd seen disaster averted: wide-eyed and shaky and grateful.

I found C waiting for me down the road, shaken but ready to laugh about it. "I was sure I was going under, and then I was sure I was all right," he said. Then he paused. "Did I cause that?"

"Christ no!" I said. Then I left lipstick all over his face. (I scoot in style.)

And now I'm late for work and have to run. Stay tuned for more updates... including The Wedding That Almost Wasn't.

Qui a coupe le fromage?

I'm reading one of Georgette Heyer's marvelous historicals and am blown away, again, by her ability to characterize so elegantly.

Take this passage. Ludovic and Eustacie are the hero and heroine; they've just met, and it's clear who already has the upper hand.

Ludovic mounted a rough pony and brought up the rear, still holding Eustacie's bridle. She took instant exception to this, and after a short but pungent argument, he let her go free, much against the advice of Ned Bundy, who was ranging alongside the convoy, whipping up the stragglers.

Short but pungent! I'm dying.

Interestingly, pungence seems to be a theme this weekend. Yesterday my neighbor invited me in to view the progress on their whole-house renovation. She stopped me at the door to warn me that her dog had gotten into something bad and had been farting more or less continuously for two days.

That fit right in with my weekend, so I sallied forth and, in her new bathroom, issued something silent but deadly. Whereupon my neighbor turned to her dog and said, "Eustace! That was awful," and continued to give me the tour.

I came home and confessed to C, who asked if I'd told my neighbor who had, in fact, dealt it. Mais non. I find the better part of valor to be blaming the dog. Happily, Eustace doesn't hold a grudge.

Others have been pungent as well. We went to a party at Syd's Friday night in which more evil yet delicious margaritas were served. Last year I was the one who had 8 too many and loved everybody; this year that honor fell to Harold.

Harold loves everyone while sober, so you can imagine how he is when inebriated: emotionally pungent. He's also about 8 feet tall with flowing blond hair, a zest for life, and a motorcycle. Thank God his wife was around to prevent him getting on it.

Have I mentioned

how much I love Amazon? On Monday I had lunch with a friend of mine who works there, and it's story Nirvana, great stacks of ARCs lying around, huge whiteboards with things written on them about books and DVDs and things. Heaven. Heaven heaven heaven.

I just want to make out with the whole company, run away with them to Aruba.

Also? They send me excellent things in the mail. Just this morning my copy of Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical Theories of Folk & Fairy Tales arrived. Delightful. I just wish it were illustrated. If I were an illustrator, I'd redo Grimm's as a chick lit fantasy.

In other news, I'm doing an exercise today where you write down everything that happens to you, more or less. Once an hour you write down things that happened to you, what you thought about them, what you observed, all that. Good writing exercise.

Chippety doo dah, chippety yay!

I am pleased to announce that the New York Cookie Bomb was greeted with great joy and celebration in the Rotrosen Agency's Manhattan office this morning.

From what I hear, they had a chocolate-chip hoe-down right there in their staff meeting. Well done, agents! Keep bringing fine literature to the world.

My strategy, obvs, is to ply them with cookies until they sign me. You've heard of charm offensives? This is a chocolate offensive. Once more into the breach, boys.

Editrices and cookie bombs

I met the lovely and delightful E for Editrix last night. If you have the chance? Meet her, because she is the loveliest. We sank a couple hours drinking at a tiki bar and talking about writing, boyfriends, husbands, and blogs.

And, after getting a teeny note in the mail from Meg, I decided to cookie-bomb New York. Which was what I was doing when someone called me about an opportunity to use my blogging expertise for - get this! - actual money! Apparently the stars are aligned.

One last thing: I recently missed a chance to hear Michael Hauge speak about writing, but an enterprising blogger has the haps here.

Announcing the Persephone blog

I'm trying an experiment: blogging in Persephone's voice, here: http://olygrrl@blogspot.com.

Right now it's mostly worldbuilding infodumpy stuff. There's still the odd shimmery line or two, but it's me stretching, working out. (I mean, would that I were actually working out, but this is highly satisfying and - bonus! - no sweating.)

I like that Pere. And Hades (Hal? Hank? Harry?) is turning out to be a stand-up guy. He and Demeter, after all, both reap: the only difference is, he reaps souls. They're more alike than they are different.

Hades' twin brother Steve, though, is a problem. Power-hungry and looking to throw a coup. He'll be one to watch, particularly since he and Pere used to have a thing, way back in high school, and since (as the younger twin) he's always had something to prove. It would be just like him to throw a wrench in the works - or more like, gas on the fire.

Present

I bought Jenny, my mentor*, a bracelet recently, for two reasons: one, it was clearly meant to be hers, and two, suck-up!**

The bracelet was a simple sterling bangle with these words engraved on it:

"Come to the edge," he said.
"We are afraid," they said.
"Come to the edge," he said.
They came, he pushed them, and they flew.

I love this because it's an entire story - conflict, crisis, and resolution - all in four lines. Set-up, build-up, payoff. It doesn't get much better than that.

* Actually now she's got competition from the lovely and talented Lani Diane Rich.
** Not really. Just a big believer in giving gifts.